


if i'm strong enough to handle this (you're wrong to leave so soon)

by procrastinatingbookworm



Series: Hello, I'm good for nothing - will you love me just the same? [23]
Category: Hollow Knight (Video Games)
Genre: Alexithymia, Apologies, Autism, Autistic Ghost, Feelings, Gen, Hugs, Internal Monologue, M/M, Multi, Nesting, Sign Language, Stimming, for the record polyamory is the norm in this fictional bug culture, i am not setting up a love triangle
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-13
Updated: 2021-01-13
Packaged: 2021-03-17 10:48:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,047
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28723845
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/procrastinatingbookworm/pseuds/procrastinatingbookworm
Summary: Ghost returns home, and a nest is made.
Relationships: Hornet & Quirrel (Hollow Knight), Quirrel/Tiso (Hollow Knight), The Knight/Quirrel (Hollow Knight)
Series: Hello, I'm good for nothing - will you love me just the same? [23]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1957039
Comments: 14
Kudos: 75





	if i'm strong enough to handle this (you're wrong to leave so soon)

**Author's Note:**

> with how distinct the narrative voice is in this particular piece, it's only right for me to credit [feralphoenix](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralphoenix/pseuds/feralphoenix) for the concept of Ghost's Swear-Laden Internal Monologue.
> 
> go read feral's fics. if you like narration from characters who are about three seconds from punching someone in the throat, and/or getting smacked around the head with less savory bits of canon (which you probably are, if you're still reading this series), and/or really good writing... [read them.](https://archiveofourown.org/users/feralphoenix/pseuds/feralphoenix)

Some of the horrible weight is gone from the air, when Ghost returns to the house—waving at Sheo and the Nailsmith as they pass where they’re sitting outside—which means there was at least  _ some _ talking while they were gone, which is good. 

It’s still quiet, though, and not in a comfortable way. The only one making any noise at all is Tiso, who’s stopped accruing a single line of weaving and started sewing the thread to itself. He’s humming to himself as he works. The song sounds a lot like Myla’s— oh, oh  _ fuck, _ Myla. Is Myla…? 

No, no, no, they have to focus. They have work to do.

Their cloak is full of vines and moss and plant life they don’t have names for; any sort of soft, draping thing they could get their claws on, with roots intact to bury in the dirt floor so that it won’t all rot and make the whole blunder of an outing worth less than flukeshit. 

The Void of their body can hold almost anything in almost perfect stasis, to their knowledge, but Ghost isn’t keen on testing their luck.

So they pull their acquisitions out of their chest, pooling them in the middle of the room. They don’t wait for permission, or to be directed. Honestly, they’re so fucking sick of being directed. 

Hornet sits up. “Hello, Ghost.”

Ghost’s hands are occupied pulling a vine out of their chest. They tilt their head in Hornet’s direction, acknowledging her.

“Ah, there you are, Ghost.” Quirrel says, the happy purr that usually takes over his voice when he talks to them is crushed at the edges by… shame? Fear? Guilt? “My dear friend. How are you?”

Ghost dumps a handful of moss on the ground, brushes off their hands, and turns towards him.

Tiso flinches. It’s more of a twitch, really. But Ghost knows that he’s flinching, and he’s flinching from them.

He flinched when Hornet sat up, too, in the same barely-visible way, like he was shaking dust off his antennae.

But he did.

That’s… bad. Something’s wrong here, rotten, like fruit left out in the heat.

Ghost wrings their claws, taps them together until Quirrel is looking at them, and signs.  _ Scared me. _

“I know,” Quirrel murmurs. “I’m sorry. I was foolish.”

_ Don’t do it again, _ Ghost signs, because there’s no way to put into words that will mean anything how incandescently angry they were at him for the moment it took before relief set in, or the relief itself, much less how  _ scared _ is such an empty, pointless word compared to what they  _ did _ feel when they thought he was gone.

“I won’t,” Quirrel says, in that soft, sad voice that means what he’s saying might be true, but it’s not the whole truth, and there’s nothing Ghost can do to squeeze the rest of the truth out without hurting him more.

Ghost sort of wants to cry. They’ve sort of wanted to cry for approximately three days straight now, if they’re keeping track of time correctly, which they’re probably not.

They pad across the room and hug Quirrel tightly. It’s not a solution by any means, but Quirrel’s happy sigh when they settle their weight against him makes their chest ache a little less.

“Good work, Ghost,” Hornet says. “This all looks plenty serviceable.”

It’s a little better, after that.

The four of them set about making their house into a nest, with the greenery and plenty of spider silk, and blankets from Holly’s pile of them, until it starts to look like an actual  _ home _ that  _ people _ would live in.

Once the work’s done and Holly’s signed their approval from their corner, Tiso immediately settles into the mossy nest that he and Quirrel made for themselves.

“I’m going to sleep,” he declares, fitting himself into the curve of the bedding in a way that Ghost finds  _ searingly _ adorable. “You’re all exhausting.”

“I love you too,” Quirrel says, with a little laugh in his voice, and even though he’s not saying it to them, Ghost’s chest still brims over with the warmth of it.

They hop up and down a few times, bouncing in the center of the room. Hornet chuckles, but it doesn’t sound unkind, so they don’t pay her any mind, jumping up and down and up and down and  _ up, _ flapping their wings so hard that the hanging vines sway and  _ down _ , their heels sinking into the moss, until the crawling aching buzzing under their shell goes back to a manageable level.

They turn around, and Quirrel is looking at them.

Just looking at them, with that softness in his gaze that makes Ghost feel prickly all over in a not-bad way, sort of like the way the Fury of the Fallen charm feels when it’s active, except without the pain of being that weak.

“What?” Quirrel asks, so,  _ so _ gently, and Ghost realizes that they’re staring at him.

Their claws freeze.

It would be simplest to sign  _ I love you, _ because they do. They love Quirrel, they love him so badly it actually hurts, and that’s not just them being dramatic either. Loving Quirrel feels the same as a nail going into the squishy void of their carapace, except it also feels like falling, and a little bit like dying, assuming it’s love at all, and they’re not just playing games with their guilt.

“My friend?” Quirrel asks.

Fuck, they’re still just standing there. They keep forgetting they can’t get away with that anymore.

They don’t know what to say. They finally have a voice again, after needing one for so long, and they don’t know what the fuck to  _ say. _ It all feels too big to put words to. Too big for the signs they have.

Quirrel makes a noise, a concerned sort of hum, and opens his arms to them, thank fuck. They know how to hug. They fit in Quirrel’s arms when he squeezes them to his chest, and it still hurts, and their hands are buzzing with what they haven’t said, but they can understand this.

Maybe wrapping their arms around Quirrel’s middle and folding themself into his warmth and nuzzling his chest says  _ I love you _ too, without so much baggage involved.

They hope so.


End file.
